Just Take The Long Way
by kirsant
Summary: Hermione and Ron are perpetually fighting, which is driving Harry up the wall. Fortunately, he sees Draco Malfoy, which then hatches an evil plan in his mind. Hermione and Draco, you better watch out! Post-Hogwarts, Dramione, featuring Harry Potter, matchmaker extraordinaire.
1. Chapter 1

**Just Take The Long Way**

Hermione and Ron were quarreling, and Harry was trying to get drunk.

It wasn't the most idyllic image of the Golden Trio, but life is what it is. Adulthood comes with its own set of problems, and defeating Voldemort suddenly means very little when you're dealing with two best friends who decided to have a relationship that then failed miserably.

Usually, both parties involved tried to keep their animosity down to a minimum for Harry's sake, but Hermione was currently halfway through her third cosmo after a bad day at work, and displaying a rather sour mood. Thus far Ron had been bearing her increasingly passive-aggressive comments with a stoic expression, but Harry knew it was only a matter of time before he blew up, and this whole debacle ended up on the front page of the news. Again.

"Hey, Hermione," said Harry, trying to delay the inevitable explosion, "whatever happened to that bloke you were seeing? You know: Andre...Austin…"

"Adrian?" Hermione corrected him with a sniff. "We broke up in December. Didn't work out."

"And I wonder why." _That_ sarcastic little quip came from Ron. He probably meant to keep it down to a quiet mutter, but there was an unfortunate dip in the music right as he said the words, and Hermione heard. She snarled audibly in response, and Harry knew he had to act fast. He'd already had to pay off several establishments that his friends had razed to the ground after their bickering had progressed to full-on battles on two separate occasions. No one was officially keeping score, but it was one to one.

And so, after giving Ron a hearty kick under the table, he quickly asked, "What, uh...what happened to Adrian?"

Hermione's eyes, swirling with fury, snapped away from the redhead. "And why do you suddenly care?" she hissed like an angry cat. "It happened months ago, Harry. _Months!"_

The-Boy-Who-Lived held her gaze, trying not to fidget. It was true: maybe he'd gotten so tired of his friends' constant fighting that he'd stopped paying close attention to them. But, as rational as his behavior was, it still didn't make him feel any better.

"Ugh..." he began, thinking hard of what to say, when Hermione's ire, much like a candle on a windy night, suddenly sputtered out, leaving her simply looking tired and lost.

"I found him sleeping around with some floozy," she confessed, heavily. "But things were on the rocks long before that. Truth is–" Hermione took a swig of her cosmo, finishing the drink in one hefty gulp "–he put the milk in first. It was never gonna work between us." She stared at her friends with a solemn expression.

The whole group shared a moment of silence, and then all three broke out laughing.

"That's just downright barbaric!" chuckled Ron, wiping tears from his eyes, and Harry added that they ought to revoke the poor bloke's citizenship.

"I mean, what kind of a savage does that?" Hermione continued, airing her grievances of the hapless ex. "It's a very simple formula: tea, then milk; not the other way around!"

"A complete primitive," the boys agreed, shaking their heads, after which it became quiet again, allowing Celestina Warbeck's high soprano, coming from the music box in the corner, waft over the table.

"Another cosmo?" Harry asked, when the silence started to drag.

Hermione shot a discrete look at the pricing menu. She looked normal again. Tired, yes, but not wrathful. "Thanks, but I really shouldn't…"

"It's on me," Harry quickly added. "I know you've had a terrible day at the office."

The change was instant. "Sure!" Hermione agreed, lighting up with a smile. "And can you ask for–"

"The umbrella on the straw? The little orange one? Got it." Harry grinned and got up to walk towards the bar. It made him happy to put a smile on Hermione's face – if only for a little while. He knew why Hermione had declined initially: tomorrow was rent day, and Hermione, to put it lightly, was quite broke. Her salary at the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was a pittance, and whatever money the Ministry had awarded her for assisting in Voldemort's downfall, she'd donated away.

It hadn't changed anything, really: house-elves were still quite contently serving their pureblood masters, with the only difference being that Hermione's vault in Gringotts could now be successfully doubled as an echo chamber. Harry, standing at the bar and waiting for the drink to be prepared, sighed. He loved Hermione, he really did. She was like a sister to him, and he'd gladly put his life on the line for her, but, lately, she'd become unbearable to be around sometimes. The break up with Ron; her financial situation, which was only exacerbated by the amount of times her department's budget had been slashed; and her lonely, single existence had left Hermione quite stressed, and when Hermione became stressed, she tended to get naggy, turning snippy, condescending, and generally very harpy-like.

Privately, Harry thought (and he would never say this out loud), but what Hermione really needed was to get laid. She needed a boyfriend, someone who would take care of her and turn her mind away from the quagmire of work. Maybe buy her a nice set of robes, too. Take her out to dinner. And pound the unhappiness out, several hours later.

"Thanks," Harry said, when the cosmo (with the pretty umbrella that Hermione always liked) was ready. He picked it up and started walking back to the table, where, he hoped, his best friends hadn't initiated Wizard War Four.

To his surprise, it was all quiet. Hermione and Ron weren't even arguing; instead, both seemed strangely preoccupied with staring into the corner of the establishment.

"I don't get it," Harry heard Ron say, and, much to his surprise, Hermione nodded. Hermione rarely agreed with Ron nowadays, even when he was right. It was a matter of principle for her.

"It makes no sense," she grumbled and then pecked Harry on the cheek when he placed the drink in front of her. "Thanks!"

"What are you two staring at?" he asked, taking his seat.

Ron nudged him and pointed discreetly. "Malfoy."

Harry looked and spied the Slytherin sitting at a corner table, his back to the wall.

"After the war," Ron continued, "the Ministry confiscated everything from them. The Manor, their vaults, all their gold...they had nothing! The Malfoys barely skated Azkaban, and look at them now! Harry, they've bought the Manor back!"

"Really?" asked Harry. This was news to him.

Hermione nodded. "Seven million galleons. That's what I heard from Padma. Five years ago, they were broke as church mice, and now they can afford seven million on their home. I just...how's that even possible? How do you make so much money?"

"I know!" Ron whined. "It's not fair! We won a war, they _lost_ it, and yet somehow they manage to come out on top! Where's the justice in that?"

"You think they're doing something illegal?" Hermione asked.

"That's an idea!" Ron exclaimed. "Probably selling dark artifacts – you know Lucius has experience with them! Harry, maybe we should check up on that, as aurors?"

"No cause," Harry remarked idly. He was dumbfounded. This had been the most amicable conversation between Hermione and Ron in _over a year._ They were actually getting along! And all because of Malfoy.

 _All because of Malfoy…_

He sat up. "You think he's single?" Harry asked. His mind was working in a thousand different directions.

"Why, mate, you interested?" Ron joked.

"I think so…" Hermione offered at the same time. "Padma would have mentioned something otherwise."

Harry glanced over at Malfoy and grinned. Malfoy was rich, Malfoy was single, and Harry suddenly knew exactly how to make all his problems go away.

He had one downright evil plan.

And he was going to enjoy every second.

 **. . . .**

Draco Malfoy was having an abysmally bad day. It was the kind of day that makes children cry for no reason, and forces wives to harp on their hapless husbands. Even nature was in a tizzy, punishing pedestrians with a cold, unpleasant drizzle that had no rightful place in the month of May.

Draco was hoping he could turn his fortunes up with a good tumbler of firewhiskey, but that was not to be the case.

"Potter." He tried very hard not to spit out the word. "Are you here in an official capacity?"

Harry Potter, Auror Extraordinaire and Boy-Who-Lived-To-Triumph, settled into the seat across from him and adjusted his glasses.

"I could be," he said, much too cheerfully for Draco's pleasure. "But that would depend on you."

Draco scowled. "I don't have the time nor the desire to play games. So would you kindly fu–"

"How do you feel about magical creatures?" Harry interrupted suddenly.

"What?! I could give a rat's–" Draco started to say and then quickly shut his mouth and narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Just curious." Potter looked too smug for anyone's good. It was unnatural. Filthy, even. And strange enough that Draco fell for the bait hook, line and sinker.

" _Why_ are you curious?" he asked, growling through his teeth.

Harry smiled. "Well I just heard that you were establishing a foundation aimed at the betterment of society. You know, promoting more egalitarian legislature, advocating livable wages for half-humans; breaking the yoke of the oppressed, so to say. That's very impressive, Malfoy. I'm impressed."

It took the Slytherin a moment of silent stuttering before he exploded, "Are you mad?! Took one too many dark curses to the head, maybe?! What in the bleeding hades are you yapping about?! What foundation?!"

Although it seemed impossible, Harry's smile only widened. "And I also hear," he added, lowering his voice and leaning in so that they looked like a pair of shady co-conspirators, "that you're assigning Hermione to be your liaison with the Ministry. I've got to hand it to you, Malfoy, that's a brilliant move! She's a real go-getter, our Hermione! She'll have your foundation's money transformed into tangible change in no time!"

Draco blinked. "I'm assigning Granger to be my fictional liaison for a foundation that does not exist?"

Harry nodded very happily.

"Alright," Draco said. "You're crazy. It's official. Harry Potter has gone officially mad."

"Now don't be so hasty, Malfoy," Harry said, and something in his voice made the Slytherin freeze. "I hear you were able to reopen your Gringotts vaults and stuff them back nearly to pre-war levels."

Draco, who had began rising from his seat, sat back down. He looked at Harry for several moments, desperately wishing that some obscure fairy magic would just whisk the Gryffindor away and leave Draco untroubled. Sadly, fairy magic is very unpredictable and was not feeling particularly compelled to assist him this morning.

And so, after a lengthy pause, Draco growled, "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well," Harry droned, "coming into so much money so fast...it would be a shame if someone looked into it. You know, someone _official,_ with close ties to the Ministry and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Would be a real shame if that someone found improprieties in this new Malfoy gold." Harry shook his head sadly, as if already commiserating for such a unfortunate event.

"There is nothing illegal about that money!" Draco hissed.

"Are you sure? Are you _really_ sure? What if someone were to dig – really dig, counting every knut? Are you certain they wouldn't discover _any_ irregularities? Irregularities that your family, given its recent history and precarious social status, can't really afford?"

Draco clenched his hands and shifted uneasily.

"On the other hand," Harry continued, checking his nails, "it would be nice for your family to have a friend in the department. Someone to possibly warn them about impending raids or inform which way the winds in the Ministry are blowing. I'm sure any Malfoy would see the wisdom in having such a source of information. Right?"

Draco sat back and exhaled. "This is blackmail. You're blackmailing me!"

"I'm not sure what you're talking about. All I see is a quid-pro-quo, with a win-win situation for both sides. Besides, imagine how much time you'll get to spend with Hermione!"

"And that's a good thing... _why?"_

Harry smiled again and began ticking off his fingers. "Well, for one, she's brilliant–"

"A know-it-all bookworm, you mean."

"–driven and dedicated–"

"A nag with no social life, got it."

"–real pretty, too; I still remember you staring at her at the Yule Ball–"

"I was _not_ staring!" Draco sputtered, turning red. "Why would I stare at some...frizzy-haired tumbleweed?! It's a miracle the wind doesn't sweep her away!"

"Besides, there is the fact that she's a war heroine to consider. Any association with her would be beneficial to your name, would it not?"

"I...That's just…" Potter had a point there, but Draco would be damned before he admitted it. "If she's so wonderful," he sneered, "then why is she still single?"

"Why are you still single?" Harry countered, to which Malfoy flushed and pompously declared, "I can have any witch I desire!"

That ill-thought phrase came out sounding childish, stupid, sexist and rather loud, making people at other tables turn around and stare, muttering with disapproval.

Harry ignored them and blandly said, "I don't think you can. Prove it."

" _Prove it?!_ Potter, are you trying to _goad_ me into asking out your friend?!"

Harry shrugged. "I don't know. Is it working?"

" _NO!"_

"It's because you haven't spent any time with her yet. You know that old adage about opposites attracting? You two are the perfect couple; you just don't see it yet."

"Fighting in the war has left you certifiably insane," Draco groaned. "Why are you even bothering me?"

"Foundation," Harry declared icily, tapping the table with his fingers. "Establish the foundation, or run the risk of losing all your wealth. Again. Your call, Malfoy."

Draco took three deep breaths to calm himself and then gritted through his teeth, "Fine."

"With Hermione as liaison."

" _Fine."_

"And no less than three hundred thousand galleons in committed funds."

" _Three hundred thousand?!"_ Ten million demons would have withered before with his glare. "You mother–"

"Language, Malfoy," Harry tutted. "What would _your_ mother say, if she heard you talking like that?"

Draco had never been able to cast a _Crucio,_ but he was pretty sure he could, now. "Damn you to Hades! Fine! Three hundred thousand it is!"

"Excellent!" Harry smiled brightly. "I look forward to hearing about this from Hermione. I expect the next couple months will be just brilliant, don't you?"

The Slytherin responded with a very crude gesture. Harry just laughed.

"See you around, Malfoy!"

After Harry left, Draco was left alone at the table, silently contemplating the overall unfairness of life and wondering whatever sins the gods were seeing fit to punish him for.

Thunder crackled outside. It was, indeed, a very bad day.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermione shuffled into work at exactly six in the morning and took the lift to underground floor twenty-three, where her tiny office in the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures was wedged between a broom closet and the men's lavatory. The lift doors opened; Hermione plodded through.

She made her way down the corridor with the alacrity of a zombie and the gait of a corpse. She walked past Draco Malfoy and greeted him with a sleepy, "Morning, Matilda." She went into her office. Ten seconds later and carrying an empty coffee mug, Hermione exited, turned left towards the office canteen (she really needed her coffee), ran straight into Malfoy, dropped her mug, lifted her eyes, and screamed.

Swearing profusely, Draco grabbed his ears. Years of study in quiet libraries had apparently left Granger's vocal chords quite pent up, turning them into a miniaturized weapon of mass destruction. His early-onset deafness would just be cause for one more curse to levy upon Potter's unrepentant head.

"Oh, God, I overworked again," Granger started rambling. "Ginny was right. I'm going to lose my mind. The hallucinations have started." She pinched Draco very hard.

"Ouch!" he yelled. "What the bloody hades, woman! You pinch _yourself_ when you're hallucinating, not someone else!"

It became very, very quiet. Hermione's eyes grew to the size of saucers; like a deer caught in the headlights, she stared at Draco with her mouth open, blinked twice, and, flushing a vivid shade of scarlet, squeaked something completely incomprehensible. Draco eyed her warily and then deftly dodged the hand she was trying to poke him with, just to ensure that he was not, in fact, actually a figment of her imagination.

Hermione, upon realizing what she was doing, blushed even harder.

Then she quickly turned around, fled into her office, and shut the door into Draco's face.

Draco groaned.

It was going to be a long day.

 **. . . .**

Five minutes later Hermione was willing to accept the fact that she had not only run into Draco Malfoy, but had pinched him, tried to prod him, and then scurried away from his glare like some timid Hufflepuff caught by Filch after curfew. Currently, she was sitting in the cramped quarters of her office space, waiting to combust from embarrassment. Unfortunately, self-combustion was a process in the making, and Draco Malfoy was still banging on her door.

"Just...just one moment!" she yelled and tried to run a brush through her hair. The brush snagged, of course; the past week had been insufferably humid, causing her hair to perpetually frizz into a giant ball. She usually managed to tame it down by the time her coworkers waddled in, sometime past nine (or ten for some), but she hadn't expected any company this early!

That thought made her angry. Why was Draco Malfoy even here? What gave him the right to disturb her in her workplace and ruin a perfectly good morning?! And if he came here to just to antagonize her, then so help him Salazar, Godric, and the other Founders, but she'd hex ten thousand putrid boils onto his face and not feel even an ounce of regret!

Emboldened by her sudden source of rage, Hermione yanked the door open and snapped: " _What_?"

Draco barely dodged the wooden frame and glared, but Hermione stared him down. She had an impressive height of five foot four and she wasn't afraid to use it. It was immovable force meets unstoppable object, except Draco knew he was on a timeline, and so, looking as pleased as if he'd swallowed a whole lemon raw, he finally gritted through his teeth: "I am here to offer you a job."

"It's not April first, Malfoy," Hermione spat back with a scowl, "and I don't take kindly to people wasting my time on pranks. So shove off and have a nice day." She moved to shut the door in his face.

Draco managed to stop it just in time and growled through the crack: "It's not a prank. I'm putting three hundred thousand galleons into a foundation that will be mandated with improving relations between wizardkind and different magical species. That's what you work for, right?"

Hermione froze, because that was, indeed, her life's ambition. She'd placed her blood and tears into such efforts, only for them to be staunchly ignored. Very few wizards, as it turned out, cared about vampires, werewolves, or other disgusting and dangerous creatures. They choose to shun and persecute instead. But with three hundred thousand galleons...that all could change! Public opinion could be swayed, and legislation pushed through! Not only various subcommittees, but even the Wizengamot would be forced to listen to her then! She could build a better, peaceful, and more tolerant society! It would be great! So great!

...Too great, in fact. Too wonderful or fantastic to be even remotely true. And where was this idea coming from? Malfoy! Malfoy, the self-centered, egoistic, and bigoted Slytherin prat that had never, ever, shown even a scintilla of concern for those of lower station. What would a man like him have to gain through such an endeavor? Nothing good, probably. It was all just some ploy, no doubt, for his personal gain and her humiliation.

Having attained such a conclusion, Hermione narrowed her eyes and prepared to call security to kick out her unwanted guest, when Draco, who had carefully been monitoring her internal struggle, began to speak.

"You don't believe me, Granger. You don't trust me and you probably think that I have an agenda. And – that's true. I do. But, ask yourself: does it matter? If wolfsbane potion becomes subsidized by the government, if legislation outlawing species-based discrimination is passed, or if half-humans are suddenly able to seek equal pay – will the reasons behind my actions matter at all? Because I don't think they will. So if you're thinking about throwing me out because of a schoolyard grudge, then I'd advise you to reconsider."

Hermione cursed silently. Everything the prat said was right. She owed it – not to herself but to others – to hear him out. She had to – even if it meant sitting across from and having an amicable conversation with the boy who'd bullied her in school and then watched her be tortured on the floor of his house. Pardon, Manor.

Draco, watching her waver, smirked and added the final bit to seal the deal.

"Besides, your salary as a consultant would be greater than anything you make here. I'm thinking half-a-galleon per hour. And you'd have your own office, someplace, I promise you, where you wouldn't have to hear people flush. _And_ it wouldn't be this cramped either." Over the top of Hermione's head, Draco could see a tiny desk, swamped underneath piles of parchment and files. "So you get to do what you love, Granger – saving the world – and you get paid along the way. How does that sound? Tempting, no?"

Hermione felt an odd lump rise in her throat. She turned away and started to blink, quickly, because her vision suddenly turned all blurry. It just wasn't fair! It wasn't fair that she should work ten to twelve hours a day, killing herself for meager knuts, only to have all her proposals die in committee. It wasn't fair that Draco Malfoy could just swoop in like some fairytale princeling and offer her the contents of her dreams.

Hermione made an odd scratchy sound, and Draco pretended not to notice. Silently, he was congratulating himself on a job well done. Granger was easy to figure out, and that bureaucrat in HR – the one he'd bribed to get access to her employee records – had become a fountain of information for only fifty galleons.

Which made sense, of course. Ministry salaries weren't exactly veins of gold. Granger, for example, made twenty.

Twenty, that is, galleons. _Per_ _month._ Draco's handkerchief cost more.

It was no wonder, therefore, that Granger's robes were worn and patched. That she'd grown thin from skimping on meals, or that there was that vacant look of growing hopelessness in her eyes. If she took him up on the offer, she'd make more in a week than she did in a current month.

And Draco knew she would accept. There was no doubt about it – it was just too logical of a choice.

Which still left him annoyed, of course. Potter's blackmail had come at the worst of times, and now not only was he forced to waste a literal ton of money on a cause he didn't care for, but he had to work with the self-righteous know-it-all.

Still, it beat the alternative. Three hundred thousand galleons was a lot, but it could be replaced. Granger could be tolerated. But having _anyone_ discover the origins of the Malfoy's newfound fortune – now that would bring a scandal of unimaginable proportions.

And so Draco smiled thinly, and held the door for his soon-to-be partner as she agreed to hear out the details of his proposal over breakfast. A hearty breakfast would do Granger some good, he thought. She was far too skinny.

 **. . . .**

 **Meanwhile, in a different part of town…**

With a jovial smile, Harry slid into the seat across from a raven-haired witch and exclaimed, "Pansy Parkinson! Fancy meeting you here! Long time, no see! How have you been? Oh, wait, I don't actually care!"

Pansy, who had been enjoying a very nice and, more importantly, _quiet_ breakfast, lifted her eyes and scowled. "Potter. What do you want?"

"That's a very good question, Parkinson!" replied Harry jovially. "But I have an even better one: what do _you_ want?"

"What I want is not to be bothered by Gryffindors bearing cryptic nonsense at–" Pansy checked her watch, "–eight in the morning."

"It's funny you should mention the time," said Harry, nimbly stealing a pastry from Pansy's plate and taking a bite. "Because at one I have an interview with a reporter from _The Prophet._ They're writing my biography, you see. Now, I've been having these meetings all year, but today we will be discussing the Battle of Hogwarts, and I seem to vividly recall a certain Slytherin witch being very vocal about her desire to sell me out to Vol–"

"I was a kid," Pansy interrupted. "I was scared and I didn't want to die. Are you really going to hold that against me?"

For a moment, Harry looked almost apologetic. "I understand," he said. "I really do. But, here's the thing: I need something from you, Parkinson. And my word can mean a lot. I'm the Chosen One, right? And so how I remember those moments in Hogwarts can really impact you in some different ways. You're opening a fashion design studio, I hear? Probably looking for clients? I imagine not many will be willing to associate with you if I highlight our negative past. But I could gloss over those moments. Wave them away. And I could also buy something from you. Maybe a tie or a suit. I'd wear it to a Ministry function, and that'd be quite the statement, because, as I'm sure you're well aware of, I'm the trend-setter of the century. With a promotion like that, you'd have people buying your stuff like it was–"

"Alright, I get it, I get it." Pansy waved her hands. "The stick and the carrot. You don't need to spell it out, I know the game. And, fine, I'll play: what do you need? But if you steal another pastry, I'll hex you."

Harry grinned and took a second bite. "Maffoy," he said with a full mouth. "You dated him, right?"

"Yes."

"And you're still friends but not together?"

"Yes and yes." Pansy rolled her eyes. "Where are you going with this?"

"I want to know everything about him," Harry told her. "Malfoy's likes and dislikes. His hobbies. Topics of conversation that he'd find enthralling. And most importantly, what he would enjoy in a partner."

Pansy raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know you swung that way."

"Oh, no, it's not for me," replied Harry. "It's for a friend."

"Weasley?"

Retort on the ready, Harry opened his mouth to deny...and then stopped himself.

Ron and Hermione had been acting insufferable all year long. They were prime for some divine retribution. Now, he'd decided that Hermione's punishment would be to end with a guy that had bullied her all throughout Hogwarts. But Ron…

Harry opened his mouth again and, very loudly, making sure to enunciate every word, declared: "No, Parkinson! No! The story that Ronald Weasley is gay and spent last weekend with his boyfriend Anthony is nothing but a complete and utter fabrication! If you do not stop spreading these vicious rumours then I will be forced to quash them using the full force of the Auror Department!"

The little breakfast place became very quiet. People turned and stared. From the look on Pansy's face, she found it all very amusing and was barely holding in her giggles. "You _do_ know that this will spread like wildfire now?" she whispered. "There'll be no stopping it."

Harry just grinned.

"It's for Granger, isn't it?" asked Pansy, when the attention from the other patrons had dissipated.

Harry shrugged and nodded. Pansy leaned back, eyed him speculatively, and said: "You're setting up Granger with Draco, and you want the world to think Weasley is gay. Whatever did your friends do to you?" She managed to sound both incredulous and impressed at the same time.

"It's a long story," Harry replied.

"Well, you're appointment's only at one, and we're going to be sitting here for some time anyway. So why don't you start?"

Harry wanted to decline, but for some reason his body betrayed him, and he ended up spending three very unexpectedly pleasurable hours in Pansy Parkinson's company, leaving her only after obtaining consent for another meeting.

Meeting, he told himself. Meeting.

Not date.


	3. Chapter 3

**Changed the Rating to M to reflect scenes of a sexual nature.**

* * *

"So," Harry asked two days later, "you wanna be my partner in crime?"

"I don't know," Pansy answered. She looked a bit flushed. "Are there any perks?"

Harry pretended to think and then boldly declared, "You get to spend more time in the company of the Chosen One!"

"Well aren't you a just paragon of modesty!" Pansy exclaimed, slapping him on the shoulder. "And what makes you so certain that any girl would even desire such a questionable pleasure?"

"Mmm, I can think of a couple things," Harry purred, as his lips pressed a trail of kisses down Pansy's alabaster skin. When his head dipped below her navel, he glanced up and grinned wickedly. "So what do you say, Ms. Parkinson? Do we have an accord?"

Clenching her thighs around Harry's head, Pansy arched her back, moaned breathlessly, and couldn't find a single reason to disagree.

 **. . . .**

Over the past two days, Harry and Pansy had followed up their initial rendezvous with several more "not dates" and promptly discovered a strong sense of camaraderie. They laughed at the same jokes; they made each other smile. They also agreed that introducing a little bit of chaos into their friends' lives was the perfect panacea for boredom.

And thus the helmsmanship of Harry's evil plan had now room for two. Besides, it was time to move on anyway. Hermione and Draco were working together – now they had to fall in love.

 **. . . .**

"You're sure this will work?" asked Harry.

"Trust me, Potter," Pansy replied. She was busy switching out the perfume in all of Hermione's bottles. "Draco goes nuts for this stuff. Just a little dab on the arm and he's like a dog chasing squirrels. Can't resist it."

Harry leaned down to take a sniff. "What is it?"

"Extract of magnolia, some lilac, gooseberries, a few other things. I was experimenting with aromas once and, much to my delight, discovered this. Draco was eating out of my arms for weeks. Of course, we still didn't work out…" Pansy sighed and continued, "But this won't be enough. You need to get Granger some new clothes. Have her hair styled a bit – I'll tell you how – and, for Merlin's sakes, keep her eating! Draco will never notice her like we need if he can count the ribs through her robes."

"Clothes, hair, food," Harry counted off. "I can manage that."

"I'm sure you can." Pansy smirked, capped the last bottle, and then glanced over Hermione's destitute flat, which she and Harry had broken into...err, gained entry by complete and total accident. "What a miserable place." She poked at two photographs on the wall; apart from a single wilted flower in a small vase there were no other decorations. "Hermione Granger lives _here?_ Never would have believed it."

"She had some rough years after the war," explained Harry. "Couldn't find her parents, and then the break up with Ron… I guess it all...added up."

"It's the war," Pansy sighed. "Doesn't want to let go."

Harry, tracing the outlines of his friends' faces in the photographs, nodded sadly.

"Well this conversation just took a depressing turn," Pansy said, scrunching up her face. Harry nodded again and was about to suggest they leave, when he had a simply splendid idea. "So let's chase it away," he suddenly said, slyly advancing towards Pansy and putting his arms around her shoulders. His brief melancholy was already a thing of the past.

"How?" Pansy looked confused for a moment, and then her eyes widened. "Oh, no, mister. _Here?_ That is just perverted. This is Granger's _flat_ , Potter. Your _best friend's bed_ is right there _;_ she _sleeps_ in it."

Harry smirked. "You're saying that as if it's a bad thing."

"Kinky. But if we get caught, I'm telling her it's all your fault."

"Gonna throw me under the bus, huh?"

"What's a bus?"

Harry chuckled darkly and then ensured that the witch beneath him couldn't form a single coherent thought well into the next hour.

...Hermione, when she returned home, noticed a peculiar musky scent wafting about her premises and went to angrily yell at the neighbors, who were, no doubt, again fouling up the place by smoking copious quantities of magical weed.

 **. . . .**

 **. . . .**

 **Meanwhile, in the Foundation's headquarters...**

It seemed that only a couple of days had passed since Granger had resigned her post at the Ministry, but the changes in her were obvious at first glance. She would enter the wide open workspace in the building Draco had rented for his Foundation with a smile, and a spring in her step. Draco caught her humming to herself sometimes; at other moments, she almost seemed to glow. And it wasn't just about the better clothes adorning her petite frame, or the food that she was finally able to indulge in – it was the air of _positivity_ that encircled her, this aura of hope, as if some great burden had been lifted, and the winds of fortune, finally, after years of hardship, had begun to blow in her favor.

Draco observed her out of her corner of his eye. He found himself observing her a lot, lately, noticing things he had never paid attention to before. Like the way her hair was – well, it was bushy and there was way too much of it and it all tended to frizz something awful, but, at the same time, it was also... _alive._ He couldn't find any better way to describe it! It wasn't just a riotous mess, but this cascade of curls that tumbled down her shoulders and glowed a deep, dark amber when the sun's rays struck it at just the right angle.

Her eyes were the color of aged whiskey and they crinkled when she smiled. There was a dusting of freckles 'round her nose – how had he never seen that? And her smell...Gods, she smelled _divine._ It brought back memories of when he was happy; when life had been hard, and the Malfoys left destitute in the post-war world, but there was no axe over their shoulders or some dark lord ready to murder and maim. The Malfoys had persevered and later, flourished. Even Pansy had remained by his side, even though he'd been left with nothing.

It was ironic that they split only after his family had regained their financial status.

But, now, every hour in Granger's presence became torture; sweet, divine torture that left him earning for more. Reinforcing her negative attributes – her "inferior" blood, her swottiness, her naggy nature – did nothing. On the contrary, it only left a strange ache in the depths on his heart, one which refused to go away even in the darkest of nights.

Draco brooded, returning again and again, just to catch a glimpse of the witch, who was working hard on a series of articles that would initiate the Foundation's first media campaign. Granger and her assistants had brought in a group of werewolf cubs for a photoshoot, and Draco hated everything about them. He hated their adorable little puppy eyes, and the way they squealed with laughter when they played; but, most of all, he loathed the moments where Granger would heft one up in her arms and start to twirl, because it made him feel needy and desperate and completely, utterly helpless. It made his mind wander; imagining not some ugly half-breed's brood in her embrace, but a boy with pale hair and brilliant blue eyes.

He would daydream about Granger holding him tight, as her belly swelled with another, and her breasts filled with milk, becoming firm and taut and infinitely fondable. These moments of mad desire would attack him unexpectedly during the day...and then Draco would shake himself and curse, because this was crazy, no; _this was insane,_ and there was probably something very wrong with him, because how else could you explain this attraction?

Magic, probably. The witch had bewitched his heart, and not with some paltry love potion, but using something much more potent – herself.

Draco fought this. He really did. But, in the end...he never had a choice.

"Granger," he growled, when the madness had taken hold of him completely. "Executive meeting. Five minutes."

"I don't have time for your nonsense, Malfoy. I'm in the middle of–"

"Yeah, I don't care. You want the money to keep coming – you'll find time."

"Ugh." Granger rolled her eyes. "Fine. Where, here?"

"No, I'm hungry. We're going out." Oh, indeed they were...and only to the finest restaurant in Diagon Alley, where Draco had reserved the best table! The cuisine was said to be delectable, although it was really the idea of 'dessert _'_ that had our Slytherin's mind so preoccupied.

"Whatever. Let me get my robes."

"I've got them here."

"Oh, ugh…" Hermione blushed as Draco held them out, helping her don the outerwear. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Now, let's go!"

When Draco and Hermione left the building, they were locked in such an animate discussion, that they didn't notice a man with a large mustache and a woman wearing a blond wig, which detached themselves from the wall of a nearby building and began to walk behind them. The clandestine pair followed them to the restaurant, got an adjacent table, and spent the entire lunch wearing matching smirks, because their machinations couldn't be called anything but triumphant.

Draco was obviously more than interested, and from the way Hermione was responding, her affections were taking root as well. "One week," the woman whispered. "One week before they sleep together."

"Hmph," the man objected. "Four days."

"You're on."

The pair watched them go, gave each other a high five, and then disapparated to Grimmauld Place, where they spent the rest of the evening...err, reading books whilst holding hands. Yes. Reading books and holding hands. Nothing more.

Right?

 **. . . .**

 **Later that night...**

"Harry!" Ron's panicked voice echoed from the entryway of Grimmauld Place. "Harry!"

Harry Potter smiled widely. Ah, yes, this would be Ron, running all furious and flustered because the tabloids had started calling him gay.

"Harry, they're writing that we're gay! That we're secret lovers! ' _More than friends!'_ it says!"

Yes, Harry congratulated himself silently. He was such a genius. His evil plan had worked perfectly. Now all he had to do– "Wait." He shot straight up. "What?"

From under the covers, Pansy chortled. "Honestly, Potter. You have one best male friend and you call him gay? What did you _think_ would happen?"

Harry cursed loudly and tried to jump out of bed, but got tangled in the sheets and crashed to the floor with a resounding _smack._ Pansy was just a fountain of help; which she expressed by cackling even harder. "Good luck explaining this away!"

Harry, ensnared by the sheets and bare arse welcoming the world, groaned. This had not been part of the plan. Not at all.

It got even better when Ron smashed into the room, did a double take, and shrieked…

" _PARKINSON?!"_

* * *

 **I have this black, dead and shriveled thing called a heart, and your reviews are making it come alive :3**


	4. Chapter 4

"Just take the long way,

'Cause I like the view,

Go by the shoreline,

Look at the moon…"

 _Just Take The Long Way_ from the album _Vagabond Lullabies_ by _Po' Girl._

* * *

 **Two weeks later.**

Hermione applied the final touch of mascara to her eyes and smiled shyly, lighting up when her reflection, obviously pleased with the positive changes in her appearance, winked back. Emboldened by the warm reception, Hermione did a little twirl, and her dress, a sleek emerald affair with just a touch of silver at the shoulders and sides, flared out at the bottom.

She liked the dress. It was a gift from Harry, who insisted she wear it to the Foundation's first Ball, which she was co-hosting with Draco to raise awareness for the cause. The material was soft as silk, and it fit her well, although it did seem a bit too...classical Slytherin.

Something Draco would like, she noted. She knew he would.

His heated stares were following her everywhere recently, and Hermione would be lying if she claimed that they didn't affect her. Oh, on the contrary: they plunged her into a delicious, sinful warmth; sent shivers up her spine; and made her body yearn for more. Several times upon returning home in the past week, Hermione had to take long showers just to cool down.

She assured herself that it was just an involuntary biological reaction: the result of too much work and a total lack of sex. It wasn't even important – her physical state shouldn't hold dominion over her emotional one. And yet, emotions were inexplicably tied into the whole affair. They were tied to Draco.

Hermione didn't know when she'd started growing fond of the prattish blond. Was it at their first meeting, when he explained the idea of the Foundation and her role in it over breakfast? Was it later, when she saw the effect her efforts were finally having, nor had to go to sleep on an empty stomach? When he started holding doors for her, taking her out to dinner, asking for – and actually listening! – to her opinions? When he'd surprised her with two additional staff members even though she'd just made an offhand remark about needing additional help over lunch?

Or had this started even earlier – in Hogwarts? Had there been some spark of attraction already present? Maybe just a tiny seed, steeped in their mutual hate and doomed in wither away in the dry and infertile soil of intolerance?

Hermione didn't have the answers. All she knew was that her heart would start beating rapidly when she thought about him; and, even now, as she was preparing to depart for the Ball, her mind kept turning towards Draco and wondering if he would ask her to dance.

And this scared her to bits. Because if he did, she wouldn't have the strength to refuse. Which was unacceptable, of course. This fantasy was just that: a fantasy. A product of her overactive imagination. It couldn't lead anywhere, and Hermione would be damned before she got hurt by any man again. The clock tinged six. Hermione sighed: it was time to leave.

She shut the door tightly on the way out.

 **. . . .**

The Ball was a resounding success. At 500 galleons a head, the Foundation had collected enough money to bolster Draco's initial investment well into the next year. Of course, Hermione didn't kid herself: she knew that many of the invitees didn't come here because they cared about the underprivileged. On the contrary: inequity only benefited these people. But what did matter – and what she could use – was their thirst for _exposure._ The pillars of society had to show they cared in order to be perceived as enlightened and beneficent individuals. So, tonight, they would give their money and make a speech or two, swelling from the pride of their charity. They would leave and go to bed and, surrounded by the splendor and opulence of their homes, they would pat themselves on the back for their generous donation.

And tomorrow, when the garish light of a new day dawned upon the waking world, they would return to their regular lives, wrinkling their noses at the 'dregs' of society and continuing to shun the oppressed. It wasn't fair, of course. But what could she do? C'est la vie, as the French say.

"What are you thinking about?" Draco asked suddenly, bringing Hermione back to reality. She shook her head and shrugged. "Nothing much."

Draco looked like the wanted to press on, but then he just nodded, silently. Hermione realized he understood. He knew this world – he'd been born to it – but, he also knew how terrible it could be. So maybe he did care, after all. Even if he'd never admit the truth.

"You avoided me all evening," he said.

Hermione turned away so he wouldn't see her blush. "I was busy."

"Donors to charm, press to exploit – it get it. But, somehow, no matter how much I followed you, you always ended up on the other end of the ballroom."

Hermione felt something tighten in her throat. "I…" she began, but Draco cut her off.

"You don't have to be afraid, you know," he said, and suddenly he was much too close. She could feel his breath on the back of her neck; it made her spine tingle. "You don't have to run away from–"

"From what?" Hermione whirled around to stare into his eyes. "This...this _thing_ between us...you know it isn't real. It can't be!"

"Can't it?" Draco purred, and Hermione hated the way his voice made her squirm with need. "Why not?"

"Because you're – you, and I'm...me." Hermione finished lamely and looked down. "Sometimes, the answer's as simple as that. I'm sorry."

She heard him sigh and move away. For a moment, it was silent; on the other end of the ballroom, hotel staff were clearing out the last decorations from the event. After a few minutes, their job done, they departed, leaving the pair alone in the semi-dark room.

"Alright," said Draco finally. "Maybe you're right, and it's not meant to be. Maybe our story isn't written in the stars and our paths will never cross the way I want them to. But, if that's the case, then tell me this: can I have a dance?"

"What?" Startled, Hermione glanced back up.

"A dance." Draco smiled. "I've been longing for one all evening."

"But..." Hermione's throat suddenly felt very dry. "There's no music!"

"And, luckily, I'm a wizard," Draco smiled again and did a little wave with his wand. A slow waltz began to play. "I can make music. So no more excuses, Hermione. No more avoidance and running away. Will you do me the honor?" He held out his arms, looking hopeful and expectant...and Hermione, driven by her curiosity and the silly daydreams that just wouldn't let her go, cautiously stepped into them. Draco's eyes lit up. There was pride there, and triumph, and relief, and also a well of unfeigned tenderness. Hermione stared, soaking up his unguarded features, feeling his hands gently settle on her body as they began to move.

Draco led. Hermione wasn't a very good dancer – she'd never had the time to learn – but, somehow, every single step felt natural. The music played around them, a slow and tender melody, and they twirled in beat to its rhythm. The lights had been doused; it was dark, and the shadows from their bodies danced on the walls, intertwined just as they were.

One, two, three; one, two, three. The piano sang; the brass and the woodwinds accompanied. Hermione stared into Draco's eyes, seeing only him. He had grown to cover her entire world, and her heart thundered, and the pulse of her blood rushed through her ears. When he pressed her closer to his body, her lips parted in a noiseless sigh, and she leaned in, resting her head on his chest.

It wasn't just a waltz anymore; it was two people, lost in their own little world. It was just them.

The music stopped. Hermione raised her head once more. She didn't move, didn't flee from the embrace. Draco looked down on her, raising one hand to brush aside the wayward curls of her hair. "Hermione," he whispered, with the tone of a traveler, returning home after spending years at sea.

She slid her hands up his back, feeling the muscles tense under his poplin dress shirt, and he leaned down to press the slightest of kisses to the edge of her lips. Hermione gasped. Draco repeated the gesture; this time, on the other side of her mouth, and then he couldn't stop. He began to pepper her skin with the most delicate of touches, kissing the coral of her lips over and over again. Hermione didn't stop him – she _couldn't_ stop him _,_ even if she wanted to. She was caught up in the moment, reciprocating every single movement.

Within moments, the languid kisses became feverish and frenzied. Lust, like wildfire, tore through their bodies. Draco's hands followed in its stead: surging up from her waist to cup her breasts and roll the hardened nipples between his fingers through the sheer fabric. Parting her lips, Hermione mewled with delight, rolling her hips in that primal movement that echoes back to the beginning of time. Her brain had shut off, leaving only feeling – a rushing, burning desire that demanded her submission and acceptance.

Her thighs parted; Draco, taking advantage of the moment, hoisted up her legs to circle 'round his waist. Pinning her between him and the wall, he leaned down again, nipping at her lips until he gained entry. His tongue met hers in what must have been an explosion of endorphins, because Hermione gasped, relinquishing herself to the sinful warmth that blossomed between her legs. She couldn't breath: it was pure, undiluted pleasure – a feeling she'd almost forgotten.

"Draco," she heard herself say – and she wasn't certain if it was a whimper or a prayer. The Slytherin panted, his hot and heavy breath echoing in her ear. She could feel the tightness in his trousers, pressing against her most sacred of places. It made her yearn for more, cursing the clothes that prevented him from claiming her fully right there, right now.

"Draco," she begged, rolling her hips again, but he had stopped moving.

"Wait."

Hermione looked up, not understanding the meaning behind his actions. "Wh–what?"

His eyes were clouded with lust, murky and gray like the turbulent sea, but he leaned back and set her down on the ground.

"Wait," he growled again.

The words crashed through Hermione like ice. Her cheeks blazed red: not the color of desire, but one of shame. He didn't want her. It had just been...an experiment. A test. A ploy. She didn't know! All she knew was that she had to get out of there... _now._

"I...I see," she stuttered, feeling as if the world had crashed around her. "I understand. I'll just...I'll go then," she gasped, taking a few jittery steps to the side. Draco pounced on her in a second.

"No, you don't," he gritted through his teeth. "You _don't_ see and you _don't_ understand. Stop – just stop _thinking_ so much! Stop worrying and being so insecure! I want you – I want you like nothing I've wanted before; I'd burn the entire world to get you, but before we do this...before anything happens...I have to tell you."

"Tell me what?" she whispered.

Draco took a deep a breath. "I have a confession," he said. "About how this: the foundation, approaching you for the job, everything...how it all began. About who's been pulling the strings. And, trust me, Hermione, there's nothing I want right now then to throw this to the wind, to take you, right here, on this floor, make you scream my name with pleasure...but I can't. I can't because you deserve to know, and I won't have any relationship between us starting on false pretenses. So, please, hear me out. Please."

The words flowed out of him, desperate and urgent and infused with a candor that she just couldn't deny. So Hermione closed her eyes, smoothes the front of her dress, and tried to regain control of her breathing.

"A confession," she said, after a few moments. "Go on."

"Not here. Upstairs. Follow me, quickly, and I'll tell you everything.

"Alright." Hermione sighed, wondering why she trusted this man so much. Surely, he didn't deserve it? "Alright."

 **. . . .**

Taking slow and careful steps, the group cautiously approached the entrance to the suite in which Hermione and Draco had disappeared earlier. Three feet away from the door, they paused.

"How long have they been there?" whispered one of the figures. It was Ron.

"Twenty minutes," answered Pansy, checking her watch. She sounded exasperated and hopeful at the same time. "You think they're finally–"

"–doing it?" finished Harry. "It'd be about time. If I have to spend one more evening trying to get these two prudes to hook up with each other, then I'll–"

"You'll do what, Harry?" Hermione snapped from behind him. Harry swore and tried to turn around, but was hit with a stunner and fell to the ground, where he was promptly joined by his comrades-in-arms.

"Harry, Harry, Harry," Hermione tutted as her heels clicked closer until they were in front of his nose. "I am _truly_ disappointed. Draco told me everything. Manipulating me like that? Trying to secretly control my feelings? You ought to know better."

Harry tried to answer, but in his petrified state, all he could manage was some incomprehensible grunting. Hermione smiled – and not in a nice way.

"And Ron," she continued, leaning down to inspect the ginger. "You decided to join him, didn't you? Just like the true friend you are. Well, that means you're in luck! Because, as a reward, you'll get to share all his glory."

Ron had absolutely zero desire to share any kind of glory, which he tried to convey to Hermione by vigorously shaking his head. Hermione ignored him. "Take care of Parkinson, Draco," Ron heard her say. "I'll handle these two."

 _Wonderful,_ thought Harry, lying next to Ron. _The prat's here too. And 'handle'? That sound ominous…_ He grunted some more, trying to get Hermione's attention, but her only reply was to smirk down at him. And it wasn't a very nice smirk, either. It made him feel...chilly.

"With pleasure," Malfoy meanwhile said, levitating Pansy with his wand. "You have fun, dear. And, Potter, Weasley: I wish you luck!" Leaving, he cackled like the evil git he was, and Harry wished for him to fall into a pit with ten thousand murderous ferrets. That'd teach him.

Hermione, unaware (or maybe perfectly aware) of Harry's thoughts, watched Draco go with a smile and then turned towards her friends. "As I said, he told me everything," she informed the unfortunate duo, as she, too, used her wand to levitate them up into the air. "About how you blackmailed him, Harry. How you've been trying to influence him and me – oh, he figured out your little perfume stunt, by the way. Which means that you broke into my home, Harry. Abused my trust. Do you know how that makes me feel?"

Harry quickly shook his head from side to side.

"Irate, Harry. It makes me _irate."_ Having said that, Hermione moved to transport the pair into the nearby suite, where she dropped them on a wide, four-poster bed. "And do you know how I respond to people who make me feel that way?"

Harry made some more unclear noises with his throat. "Oh, do you want to say something, Harry?" Hermione asked sweetly. "Well why didn't you just tell me?"

"Hermione!" Harry gasped once she modified the petrification charm so that he could move his lips. "Hermione, let's talk about this!"

"Oh, but we _are_ talking about this," the bushy-haired witch replied, as she leaned over him to begin unbuttoning his shirt.

"What...what are you doing?"

Hermione gave Harry a wicked smile and then moved down to his trousers, which she unbelted, unzipped, and then roughly yanked down to his ankles. "Hermione!" Harry protested. "I don't understand–"

"Oh, it's really very simple, Harry," Hermione told him her most innocent voice. "In two minutes, I'm going to leave this room, and exactly ten minutes after that, a pair of reporters from _Witch Weekly_ will wander in here, just happening to catch you and Ron with your, ahem, _pants down._ And since the petrification charm will dissipate as soon as they enter, then all they'll see is two _very good_ friends having a _very good_ time. What do you think, Harry? Isn't that a swell idea?"

"Hermione," Harry gasped. His eyes had grown to the size of saucers. "Hermione, _that's evil!"_

"So they tell me!" she cheekily replied and waved her wand to shut him up. "Now, be a dear, and stay silent while I undress Ron. Ron, there's no need to pale: I've seen it all before, and it's not that all impressive." Ron glared, but Hermione just grinned. "There, all done. Have fun explaining this, boys! And good luck on quashing those rumors! They'll never end now! _Ciao!"_ Cackling just like an evil Slytherin witch, Hermione swept out of room, leaving the pair of misfortunate aurors flushed, sweaty, and wishing they'd never initiated this whole thing at all.

 **. . . .**

The moon, nestled in a cloudless sky, shined brightly. Its light reached down, illuminating the surf, gently lapping a pristine shore; and the couple, sitting on the beach. His hair was pale; hers – caramel brown. She rested her head in the crook of his shoulder, and his arm was wrapped around her shoulders, protective and tender, like he wanted to guard her from every danger in the world.

"Did you really call the reporters on them?" the man asked.

The woman smiled. "No. They didn't deserve that. But it'll be good for them to sweat a little."

His merry laughter echoed far over the water. "How very Slytherin."

"Mmm. I had a good teacher." The man smirked and then lowered his head to press a kiss to her lips.

"Do you think this could have happened earlier?" the woman asked, several minutes later.

"What? Us?"

"Yes. In Hogwarts. Do you think it would have been possible…"

The man sighed. "I don't think so. I think we needed time. _I_ needed time. So, our journey...I guess we needed to take the long way."

"I guess," the woman agreed. "But that's alright. You know why?"

"Why?" the man asked.

She held his head in her arms and smiled widely.

"Because I like the view."

 **. . . .**

 **. . .**

 **. .**

 **.**

 **The End**

* * *

 **Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed this story, check out another short one of mine: The Intricacies of Marriage! It's a marriage law where Hermione and Draco try to murder each other!**


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